It's Usually Subtext
by RissaCay
Summary: When John transfers to a prestigious private school to play for the #1 football team in the country-with a broken family, extreme anxiety, and all the pressures of a starting position as central offense-he hardly expects his curious new roommate to be his greatest priority. But as John soon learns, nothing about Sherlock Holmes is easily expected. AU TEENLOCK ((please review))
1. Chapter 1

The locker room became an ensemble of bustling sounds: cleats on title, lockers slamming shut, and the excited chatter of 24 boys on their first day back in season. The prestigious private school was home to the most competitive high school soccer program in the country, and as John Watson slid his shin guards into his socks, he couldn't help but gap at the reality of his new situation.

"Damn, bout' time for some new cleats, don't you think?"

John looked up. The tall, hooked-nosed goalkeeper's stared down at him, sneering slightly.

"They're lucky," John lied. He picked some dried mud from the bottom of his cleats. The tattered shoes were barely useable, held together with duck-tape and thread. But every time the water seeped through, chilling his socks, or his heels bled from friction, John simply counted his blessings. The Watson family was using all their income to send him to the esteemed private academy in the hopes of pursuing a career in sports, so he was hardly in any position to complain about a few scuffs.

"They must be," said Greg Lestrade, the team captain who was bound to be recruited by the end of the season, as he slipped his practice jersey over his head. "Did you notice that you're the only one to make the team who isn't a returner?"

John had, in fact, noticed. Since last season's graduating class was unusually minimal, the competition for the single opening spot was fierce throughout all of summer try outs. He'd actually seen teenage boys in tears after getting cut.

The goalkeeper's eyes lit up. "So what are we gonna make him do? It's got to be good."

John squinted. "Um, what?"

Greg rolled his eyes. "It's tradition for new players to have a… well, we call it orientation, but it's more like a dare. Last year we made Anderson do a lap in his underpants."

Some of the boys listening in began to laugh in remembrance.

"That doesn't sound too bad," said John.

"It was _raining_," said the goalkeeper bitterly.

"Fine then, Anderson," said a defender (Jerry, maybe Garry. No, definitely Jerry) "You get to choose what this poor bloke has to do."

A smile stretched across Anderson's sallow features.

"You have a name, then?" asked Greg, staying beside John as the team began to flood out the locker room.

"John Watson."

"Age?"

"I'm about to turn sevente—" But he was cut off by Anderson's sudden halt.

"HOLD ON. See that boy over there?" He pointed across the field.

"Oh now _that's _just cruel to John," muttered Jerry.

"I…" Then John saw him: the lanky, dark figure sitting alone in the grass. Most of his uniform was hidden beneath a large, black overcoat that contrasted starkly with his pale skin. Brown curls covered half his face as he read some textbook with an unusual ardency. "Okay, I see him."

"Get _him_ to accompany you to Ally Hooper's back to school party," concluded Anderson.

"Get off it, Anderson. That's impossible," said Greg.

"I want to see him try," argued Anderson. Some other boys entered the conversation, rallying behind Anderson's decision.  
John looked back toward the boy in the grass. His head jerked upward, and John was met by a pair of inquisitive blue-green eyes, as though he had sensed John's gaze.

"I don't get it… who is that?"

Anderson smirked. "That is Sherlock Holmes. He's hasn't got any friends. He's some sort of psychopath. I'd take rain and under paints over that nutter any day."

….

John was positive that he'd miss home. Admittedly, he wasn't sure how much he'd miss the hour long train ride that he endured for every day of tryouts. Nor would he miss his sister's blaring music from her bedroom right across the hall, the faulty air conditioner that often ceased working on the hottest days of the year, or any of the darkest memories he could retrieve from his childhood house. But living in a boarding school? Well, it'd be a new experience at the least.

It was the day before first quarter and the halls were beginning to fill. After morning practice and a quick shower, John headed nervously to the headmaster's office.

He was a bit early for his scheduled appointment and ended up waiting awkwardly outside the door. Voices were just barely audible from within, and John listened despite his better judgment.

"_Please sir. I don't think I can make it through an entire year with him!"  
_"_School policy states that students must have cause before switching roommates."_

"_I have cause. He's a…. Well, you know how he is. Please, sir." _

"_I'll take your request into consideration. Now if you don't mind, I have another student to meet."_

The door opened, and a very dejected looking boy came out into the hall. John stepped nervously into the headmaster's office. The man waiting to greet him was tall, stony-faced and grey in complexion, reminding John vaguely of the gargoyles in front of the school.

"Hello there. Mr. Watson, correct? Congratulations on making the football team. Take a seat," said the man warmly.

"Thanks, Mr. Conan," said John as he placed himself in a greenish chair besides the man's tall desk.

"You had some concerns about your living arrangements?"

"Yeah… It's just that," he inhaled deeply, "I get severe night terrors."

The headmaster leaned forward, resting his head on an upturned fist. "Night terrors, you say?"  
John hated talking about it. He always felt like some freak of nature. "It's sort of like a nightmare, except it's not. I wake up screaming and sweating and can't ever remember why. My psychiatrist says they're a result of my Posttraumatic stress disorder. I just thought you should know that before assigning me a roommate. Some people get really, well, bothered to say the least."

"Right. Well, thank you for sharing this with me. I wish I could offer you a private room, but I'm afraid that would be against school policy. The only solution I could think of would, well, maybe that's a bit too off-case…"

"What is it?" asked John. "I'll do anything, really."

"There's another student that's known to be, well, a disruptive roommate for several relatively minor reasons. I suppose it seems logical to pair you to together. Not as a punishment, of course, but as a fair balance."  
"That seems like a decent idea," muttered John.

The headmaster smiled, typing something into his computer. "You seem like a nice young man, John. Thinking of others shows nobleness and maturity. Maybe this is a good thing. This student, well, he could use a friend like you. You're new dorm is room 221B, and you'll be living with Sherlock Holmes."


	2. Chapter 2

John dragged his suitcase through the entry of room 221B. He was struck, at first, by the untidiness of his new room. Already, books and papers were strewn over the joint desk. Jars of unrecognizable substances (that couldn't be food) were left open as well. One bed with a great lump in the sheets was left unmade, suitcases were unpacked, and John was pretty sure there was a skull on the shelf.

As John pulled his possessions into the least cluttered half of the room, the lump of sheets stirred. Then, like a spring, raised the curly-haired boy. It was midday yet he wore a night robe, and his head spun around the room until he settled his gaze upon John.

"I think I'm your new roommate, John Watson."

"You don't _think._ Clearly you know by now that we're to be roommates. Now tell me then, what did they say about me?" he asked.

"What?"

"When you stared at me from across the field. What'd they say? 'Freak' seems to be one of Anderson's particular favorites, although I do also get 'psychopath' or even 'know-it-all' . The later I don't mind really; it's quite easy to be a know-it-all in the company of know-it-nothings." After his ramblings, the boy turned toward John and smiled. "Sherlock Holmes."

"John Watson," he replied, "and don't worry, I don't hold the opinions of Anderson in too high a regard."

"Wise choice. You know, when Anderson tried out, he was up against another keeper. A better one, in fact. Then Anderson's parents paid the bloke off to play for a different school."

"Really?" said John as he unpacked his heavy textbooks onto the shelf.

"The spoiled blokes at this school have everything handed to them. But I suppose _you_ have some potential."

"What do you mean?"

"You're a scholarship student, clearly. Part athletic, part academic—you pay half of what the rest of us pay. Still, your single… dad, I'm guessing… can barely afford tuition. You're just lucky to be here. Am I close?"

"How'd you know that?"

"Your suitcase is a tattered hand-me-down. The label with your name on it is covering an older one. It's masculine colors so it must have been a father's or a brother's. Of course, _you_ wouldn't have your own suitcase because this is your first private school. So why switch schools this late in the game? Hopes of getting recruited. You've still got the imprints of shin guards faintly on you shins, so football. The academic part was obvious. All of your textbooks are for advanced courses. So there you go: poor, athletic, studious."

John blinked. "That was… _fantastic_ ."

An expression of surprise took over the other boy's features. "That not what people usually say."

"What do they usually say then?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Bugger off, you arrogant freak."

John laughed and, after a moment, Sherlock joined in.

"But Sherlock, how'd you know my dad's a single parent?"

He rolled his eyes as though it were apparent. "Your suitcase looks like it was packed by a six year old. A mother would have her son's clothes ironed and folded for his first year away from home."

"You're…" John began, but closed his mouth before saying a word.

"Get on with it then," said Sherlock. Something behind his eyes seemed to harden, and it occurred to John that he may be bracing himself for an insult.

"I was going to say brilliant. You're brilliant."

The boy smirked but remained silent.

"Erm… what's with this?" asked John, examining the skull that was staring back at him.

"A friend of mine," said Sherlock. "Speaking aloud helps me think. The skulls a good listener."

"Am I to assume that role while I'm around?" joked John.

The boy curled back up into an odd little ball and pulled the sheet over his head, but not before sighing, "I may like that."

John didn't hear from him again in some time.

…

"I can't believe you ended up with him," panted Anderson as they rounded their fifth lap.

"I've heard boys literally transfer schools to get rid of him," added Gary.

Their slightly labored breathing and heavy footsteps mingled in the air above the field. "He doesn't seem that bad," said John. "He's strange… and has no sense of courtesy, but he alright."

"You're too nice, Watson," said Garry.

"You still have to get him to the party!"

"Okay, okay," said John, thinking of his roommate who had spent most their first day together buried in his 'experiment' or playing his violin. "I'll try."

**Hey everyone. PLEASE PLEASE review. I write a lot fast that way. Also, I have another teenlock story finished called "Classroom 221b" if you're interested. **


	3. Chapter 3

On their first day of classes, John joined Anderson, Lestrade, and (now there was no confusion, certainly _Garry_) into chemistry class. They seated themselves in the middle of the laboratory-style room beside Garry's petite girlfriend. As the students flooded in, John spotted Sherlock in the corner, the seats around him barren. He didn't seem to mind.

Their teacher had a wild look to her, long grey hair and a flowing skirt. She smiled at them. "My name is Miss Lavender," she said. The name sounded fictional to John, but it did seem to suit her well. "To tell you a bit about myself, I have been an environmental scientist for the better half of this decade. I've worked in Peru, Kenya, Brazil, just to name a few. My work usually consisted of conserving biodiversity in developing areas."

"_Hippie,_" muttered Anderson beneath his breath.

"Anyhow, I think fate has brought me to Doyle this year. My daughter just had a baby so I decided on a permanent position nearby her. Plus I've always desired to teach. I also have a lovely pet parrot named Calipto, and I adore books. So that was my brief. Now for class today, the rest of you will briefly tell about yourselves."

John always hated the awkward class introductions. It wasn't exactly that he was shy, just vastly uninteresting.

It was Lestrade who volunteered to go first. He was the type of kid who demanded attention, and even a certain amount admiration, from his muttering classmates. "Hi. My name is Greg Lestrade. Be warned, I'm crap at science and may end up exploding the classroom or something." (Some laughter). "I am hoping to go to academy and play football, maybe take a go at playing pro, but ultimately I want to study detective work. Erm, my favorite color's red and my favorite team's Manchester United. That's about all."

Miss Lavender seemed delighted at Lestrade's brief, and continued to call students to the front of the class. Some kids spoke effortlessly, some needed prompting; many had intriguing talents and interests whilst others squawked on about celebrity crushes on Harry Styles or Benedict Cumberbatch. Mostly everyone in class already knew one another, but John actually found the time to be helpful. Though the details were trivial, he was granted a decent understanding of his classmates. He couldn't help but glance over at Sherlock. He looked utterly bored, and John wondered how much he was deducing about the students who stood before him.

About twenty minutes in, John's turn came around.

"Hi. This is my first year here. I'm John Watson. I just made the football team…" John could sense the interest in him spike from mild to intense upon mentioning the competitive team. "That's about all I guess."

He tried to take his seat, but Miss Lavender held him back. "Now that can't be _all_. Tell us more. We're riveted. Tell us, John Watson, what are your aspirations, your goals?"

What was he supposed to say? He aspired to get past his severe anxiety, move on from fromer traumatic events, and sleep soundly for a few nights. But he couldn't share _that. _

He found Sherlock's eyes in the crowd. They exposed a penetrating interest that hadn't been there with the others, and it reminded John vaguely of his very first sighting of Sherlock in the field. "I guess my biggest goal is to just help people. I don't really know how. To me, it's just important to be a positive presence in someone's life while you can." _Fuck, that sounded lame._

But a ridiculous smile stretched across Miss Lavender's face. "That was lovely," she said.

Sherlock, of course, was the last to present. He wore a stony expression in front of the class, like his pale skin was sculpted from marble.

"Sherlock Holmes. I play the violin and enjoy conducting experiments. When I'm finally free from this school, I plan to be a federal detective. But unlike Lestrade, I plan to do so competently and independent from the government."

"You can't be an independent _federal_ detective," mocked Anderson.

"Please, Anderson, has it ever occurred to you that the limitations of an idiot like yourself don't quite apply to me?" he answered quickly.

"Now, boys—" Miss Lavender began.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Miss Lavender, but opinions have already been formed about me in this class. Those aren't going to change. They only new person here is you, and you haven't been quite honest with us, have you?"

She paused, unsure of herself.

"While your daughter may be pregnant, that's not why you're really here, is it? Your husband and business partner left you in Puerto Rico for a native. Since all of your conservation efforts have been joint, you feared no one would recognize you on your own so you gave up, came here, told yourself it was better off that way. You'll begin your teaching career all happy-go-lucky, but soon you'll get bored and bitter and begin to hate us all. I'm saving you the time. Like everyone else, you can just start hating me now."

As she stood, shocked into silence, Sherlock grinned at her. Then he spun on his heels and left the class twenty minutes before the bell.

"Don't take him too seriously," said a girl in the front. "He's like that with everyone."

Miss Lavender just smiled a bit shakily. "Well, that was quite a show, wasn't it? For the rest of class I have a quick 'intro to chemistry' video to show you."

As the lights dimmed, John's cellphone buzzed in his pocket.

_Bring my stuff to the room –SH_

_You could have gotten it yourself …._

_Would have ruined my dramatic exit though-SH_

….

Sherlock was curled in his bed when John brought him his book bag at break. He had already shed the majority of his uniform, and John got the impression that he had intended to skip a number of his classes.

He dropped the bag near Sherlock's feet. There was no 'thank you' of any kind. Irritated, John intended to leave. But with his hand on the doorknob, he heard, "You're wondering how I knew it all".

"I don't really care _how_ you humiliated our perfectly nice teacher," he replied.

"Don't lie to me, John." Sherlock sat up.

John gave in and leaned his back against the door. "Fine then, how'd you know all that stuff about her?"

"She still has an uneven tan on her wedding ring finger, so recent separation. Leaving her old job that she was clearly passionate about indicated that there was probably a correlation there. She felt the need to throw in that needless bit about her daughter as means of explaining herself, so I knew she had something to hide. Cheating husband seemed the most logical explanation. She has postcards of her travels pined to her bulletin board. The Puerto Rico one was ripped in half, but also taped back together as if in regret, and slightly hidden in the corner. It was all too simple really."

John _was_ impressed, of course, but he didn't intend on giving Sherlock the satisfaction of saying so. "Still, she was rather kind and didn't deserve to be talked to like that."

Sherlock's face dropped at this reaction.

"She would have disliked me eventually anyway," he pouted, sounding a bit like an overgrown child.

"You don't know that!" said John.

"Yes," said Sherlock. "I do. Now if you don't mind shutting the door on your way out." Sherlock disappeared beneath the sheets.

John exhaled. Class would begin in five minutes.

John pulled the sheets from his bed. The half-naked boy stared up at him, matching the expression 'deer in the headlights' perfectly with his wild blue eyes. "What are you doing?"

"C'mon, we have English next."

"I'm not going to that useless class," he spat. "I think I have a solid mastery of my native language, thank you."

"That's not the point and you know it," said John. "Please? I don't even know where the class is in this giant school, and because I've spent most my break being you're delivery boy, I'll be late if I can't find it."

Sherlock rubbed his eyes. "Fine. But I get cranky when I'm woken up."

"Oh but you've had such a sunny disposition thus far," John teased as he handed Sherlock his shirt from off the floor.

Sherlock pulled it over his head, flattening his mess of curls. As they exited their dorm, Sherlock said, "It's just down the hall. You can fall behind me if you want."

"Why would I want to do that?"

"…You know what people think of me here."

"So?"

"I thought," Sherlock huffed, "I thought that since you're on the football team and are all nice and attractive and all that nonsense that you might want attempt popularity, or at least maintain a decent reputation. That won't happen if you allow yourself to be seen by me outside of our room."

John nudged his arm. "See that's where you're mistaken. I'm _so _nice and attractive and all that nonsense that being seen with you will only result in a boost in your popularity."

Sherlock scoffed. "That's a lost cause."

"Maybe if you stopped being a prick to everyone."

"Another lost cause."

They laughed as they walked into English class. A small twinge of guilt invaded John's stomach; his popularity on the team _did_ depend on Sherlock, on getting him to Ally Hooper's party. He looked over at the boy as they took their seats in the back. Sharp features made him look alien, but they managed to work for his face. At least in John's opinion, it wasn't Sherlock's looks that made him vastly unpopular here at Doyle. He's was strangely handsome, and certainly far better looking than John considered himself. But Sherlock's temperament changed around other people. His eccentric disposition immediately turned to repellant. And as Anderson entered the room, his bright eyes twisted his face into a scowl.

"Another class with you?" Anderson howled. "That's two for two."

A pretty dark-skinned girl beside him stopped where he did. "Tough luck, that is," she said.

"Don't talk Anderson. It doesn't suit you. And ah, Sally Donovan, too bad the teachers isn't male in this class. You may have to get an A with your clothes on this year."

Her jaw dropped. "I don't appreciate your accusations, _freak." _

The walked away, leaving Sherlock grinning triumphantly at himself.


	4. Chapter 4

John was reading the first chapter of a very dreary history textbook when a large sum of cash drifted onto his pages. "What's this?"

Sherlock stood over him. "I need you to do me a favor," he said plainly.

John's eyebrows formed a V-shape. "What sort of favor?"

"Malcolm McDonald. He's on your team," Sherlock state. Though John rarely spoke with the porky defender, his face came to mind.

"Okay?"

"Buy me drugs from him. Whatever he's got, whatever's strongest."

"What? No!" John stood up and forced the bill back into Sherlock's hand. "I can get kicked off the team for that, or worse, expelled from the school! Bringing you your book bag is one thing, but buying you drugs?! No, I won't, Sherlock. Get them yourself."

Sherlock fell dramatically onto John's bed, forcing some of his homework to soar to the ground. "But he won't sell anything to me. No, not to the _freak_; surely _the psycho _can't be trusted!"

John wasn't sure what to do about the sulking teenager beside him. He hadn't pinned Sherlock as the drug type, certainly not the hard stuff anyway. "C'mon Sherlock, drugs are shit for your health."

Sherlock waved his hand in the air above him. "Health? Health is boring."

"What, erm, exactly have you done?"

"Done? Everything, I suppose."

John frowned. "You sound like you have an addiction."

"It's nothing, just a cure for boredom."

"That stuff will kill your brain cells," said John. Sherlock didn't answer. He just lay out on the bed, staring up at the ceiling intensely. John moved him over enough to sit down on the mattress and leaned back against the headrest.

"He sells it to everyone else," Sherlock muttered softly.

John became suddenly aware of his close proximity to the miserable boy beside him. The principal hadn't been kidding—Sherlock really did need a friend.

"To Hell with him, Sherlock, you don't _need _drugs. There are other things to keep yourself entertained. The guys were thinking of heading to the movies tomorrow after practice, if you want to come."

Sherlock scoffed.

"Okay then… I haven't been downtown yet. The guys say it's not much, an antique store, a book store, some pubs, but I'd still like to see it."

The bed wasn't large, so when Sherlock turned his head just slightly toward John, his forehead pressed against John's leg, just above his knee. "Alright," he said. "They hardly enforce curfews on the weekends. What time's your movie end?"

John was surprised. He hadn't expected Sherlock to actually agree. "I'm guessing about nine."

"Okay," he said.

"Okay."

….

The boys left the theater with a rush of adrenalin. The feeling was formed by a combination of soda, candy, an explosive action movie, and the knowledge that they had completed their first week of school.

"What'd you r girl say, mate?" Lestrade asked Garry.

"Her and her friends are at the restaurant waiting for us," said Garry happily. Their newly-formed plan was to meet up after their movie for dinner.

"Sally's going, isn't she?" asked Anderson, doing a rather poor job at masking his excitement.

Garry nodded. "Oh and don't worry Watson, Lydia's got plenty of cute friends."

John laughed. "I, um, actually don't think I can make it." The shopping center that they were in was just a bloke away from the school, but Sherlock and John had planned to take the bus downtown.

"Why not?" asked Greg.

"I have plans, actually."

"Oooh," coed Garry. "John's already found himself a date."

John rolled his eyes. "No it's not like that. I'm just heading downtown with Sherlock."

The boys paused. "You know, John, you don't have to take that dare we gave you too seriously," said Greg.

"What? Of course he does! Where's your sense of tradition?" protested Garry. "But I guess going out with him on weekends is a bit much."

"It's not for the bloody dare," John objected. "I thought downtown seemed interesting when I drove through and none of you blokes wanted to join me, so I asked Sherlock. He's not all that bad, you know."

"You don't know him like we do," said Anderson. "He'll just take a look at ya and know everything, all your secrets: what classes you're failing, who you fancy, who you're fucking. Then he'll tell everyone. Just like with Miss Lavender, and he's _always_ an prick about it."

John thought back to when Sherlock told him of Anderson's parents and the goalkeeper.

"Listen guys, you have fun without me. I better start heading back."

John turned around. His ears felt hot as he walked away, sensing their gaze on his back.

….

Sherlock was waiting for him at the bus stop. Drenched in darkness with the collar of his favorite black overcoat popped up, he looked nothing if not aloof as John approached.

"Hey," he said.

Sherlock looked over. He seemed almost surprised to see him there. "Hello John. How was your movie?"

"Everyone seemed to like it."

"I didn't ask about _everyone_," Sherlock muttered.

"Okay then, I personally thought it was a bit idiotic but still entertaining," said John. As the bus approached, Sherlock became drowned in the headlights.

The bus driver gave them a bit of a nasty look when they walked in. John wondered whether the old man disliked teenagers, confused them for a gay couple, or simply knew and already detested Sherlock. Either way, they took their seats a few rows back.

The drive was short. Sherlock mostly just stared out the window, and John watched the shadows move across his eccentric face.

The silence was beginning to feel awkward. John knew that Sherlock didn't always feel the need to speak, but in public, conversation seemed like more of a necessity. To break the silence, John's stomach decided to cry out.

"Hungry?" Sherlock smirked.

"Yes, apparently," laughed John.

The bus pulled to a stop. Without a word, Sherlock stepped out and toward the near-by diner.

The downtown attempted to portray a homey , classic character. And despite its ill lit streets and chipping paint job, it was a cute street.

The diner wasn't crowded, but it wasn't empty either. Sherlock took a seat in a booth and John sat opposite him.

"They have great burgers, or so I've been told," he muttered.

Burgers were John's favorite food. He wondered how Sherlock knew that, but didn't ask.

"You know, I don't think it's fair," said John. "We've been roommates for a week and you've deduced countless things about me, but I feel like I hardly know a thing about you."

"You know the important parts. Everything else is just trivial."

John scanned the menu. "Still, I'd like to know. Seems only fair."

Sherlock pressed his hands together under his chin as if in prayer. "Okay, John. What would you like to know?"

John, deciding on a burger, put his menu down. "Alright… favorite barnyard animal?"

"Are these the pressing questions that keep you up at night? Well I suppose a sheepdog. They seem the brightest."

"Erm... favorite cartoon character?"

"What, I don't know. The mouse."

"You mean Mickey?"

"Yes, him."

A tattooed waitress came up to take their order. Sherlock just requested a coffer—black, two sugars.

"A little late for that, don't you think? It'll keep you up."

"Do you always mother people like this?" Sherlock replied. It came across biting, though John knew he didn't intend to insult him.

"I'm the one asking questions," John retorted. "Favorite color?"

"Purple."

"If you could be born in any year, what year would it be?"

"Hmm," said Sherlock. "Perhaps late 1800's."

"Best memory?"

Sherlock paused to think. His eyes took on the glassy look that they did as he'd deduce, and he inhaled sharply. "When I was four, my teacher suggested I get tested for autism. One thing led to another and I ended up being classified as a child prodigy. Still am one, I suppose, until I turn 18. Then I'll be nothing."

"You'll still be a bloody genius," John pointed out.

"True," said Sherlock, and his sharp lips twisted into a smile.

"Worst memory?"

He paused, the diner lights flickering behind him. In the absence of light, his smile disappeared.

"You don't have to answer that one," John back-tracked.

"No, I will tell my story," said Sherlock. "If you tell me about the accident."

"How'd you know about that?"

"You go out of your way to change when I'm not in the room. You aren't body-shy because you change in front of your team every day. You're hiding something from me, something you don't want me deducing: a scare, from an accident, the same one that killed your mum?"

John took a deep intake of breath. "Okay then," he said. "Fair enough. You first."


	5. Chapter 5

12:34.

This was the time Sherlock chose, and he would be precise. It had been at that time, years prior, that Sherlock's Mum had given birth to him. Now, on the eve of his 17th birthday, Sherlock had planned to take his life at the very same hour. He wasn't usually one for irony or metaphors, and he doubted anyone would notice, but still, Sherlock set the deadline. _Dead_line. Hah.

Sherlock's parents were in France, attending to some big important business that Sherlock felt no need to detail. They had wired extra spending money into his account that week, most of which was spent on the exotic drugs and alcohol currently coursing through his system. But he'd also gotten a nice new blue scarf.

That next morning, his brother had had the family chef prepare Sherlock's favorite breakfast. He gave him the usual gift: clothes, books, toiletries, and all the other necessities he'd need for the upcoming school year, which would start in a week—also, a warm pat on the shoulder and an "I'm off to work. Stay out of trouble, little brother".

After breakfast, Sherlock had returned to his bed. The morning passed in an intoxicated blur, and Sherlock only remembered throwing up once and receiving one happy birthday text from a girl a year below him. Molly, her name was.

Still, one text message was his new record. To have expected anything more would have been ridiculous. Sherlock didn't have family. (He had a large assembly of people whom he was related to, forced to see for large social gatherings, who knew nothing more of him other than 'ah Sherlock, the autistic one, a bit off, isn't he?') And he certainly did not have friends. The kids at his school who ignored him were the kindest. The ones that spoke in whispers as he passed through the halls or let out an annoyed sigh when he entered a room weren't too bad. But then there were the girls who claimed in sharp laughs that Sherlock tried to get with them, and the students who had a colorful collection of insults reserved just for him, and the guys who sent Sherlock to his dorm room with a limp in his step or a split down his limp. Oh, and always the roommates who pretended not to notice.

But Sherlock wasn't a victim. He never wanted to be accepted by his peers. He'd rather bleed at their hand than know he was _one of them_.

They held themselves in such high regard, like they were all angels. For a while, Sherlock had fancied himself a Lucifer. But he wasn't. Not really. He had never fallen because he had never been like them—he had never been an angel at all.

So what was he then? He carried himself as though he were a god, formed his own religion around the belief that everyone else was so bloody ignorant of their own stupidity.

They were angels and they were idiots and he would _never_ be like them.

But Sherlock knew he wasn't a god, wasn't an angel, was barely a human. He felt like nothing, and was determined to literally be _nothing_ after 12:34.

There was no need to write a note. He considered replying to the girl, Molly, but ultimately decided against it.

The alarm went off. Two minutes to go.

Sherlock fastened his new scarf around his neck. He attached the other end to a steal bar near his closed window. Sherlock kicked the chair out from under him.

He had theorized what it would be like, that moment. Would he feel fear, relief, regret? But he felt the best possible sensations: nothing, apathy.

Then the world went dark.

…..

"What happened next?"

Half of John's meal was getting cold in front of him. He couldn't eat, couldn't do anything but listen to Sherlock speak. He told his story so casually. It made John's skin crawl.

"Mycroft had asked my chef to prepare my favorite lunch. A maid was coming up the stairs to bring me my plate when she found me. I was unconscious. My brother likes to say it was him who saved my life. I beg to differ. I say it was a plate of homemade mac and cheese that did it."

"And that was it then…" said John, bewildered. "You're worse memory was that day?"

"Not that day—that night, afterward. In the hospital, with my parents who had flown in and my brother staring down at him, I knew that I had failed."

Sherlock took a long drink of his coffee, keeping his eyes on John over the rim of the mug.

…

It was a long drive home from the soccer tournament. John's father usually took him to this stuff, but he was busy, so today it was his mum who had to put up with the sour attitude of a defeated 12-year-old boy.

"You did fine, honey. It was a tricky shot."

"It was a simple shot, mum. I just missed it because I'm an idiot."

"You aren't an idiot. Don't speak like that."

"You don't _understand_, okay? So just bugger off."

They weren't in a familiar area, but Mrs. Watson was determined to ease her son's nasty mood with some ice cream. They parked in a run-down shopping center because it had an old ice cream parlor.

John was looking down at the floor. He was some distance behind his mum, kicking an empty can when he heard it.

"What are you… I will _not_! I'm not alone! I'm calling the—"

A scream and a gunshot.

John ran forward. His mum had just turned the corner, out of site, when it had happened.

"Mum! MUM!"

Her shirt was yanked over her shoulder, and a deep wound was reddening her stomach.

"Mum! Please, please mum!"

John turned around in a moment of senseless bravery and took two steps toward the masked-man who had been sprinting down the alleyway. "HEY! HEY!"

The man turned and shot into the air wildly. A searing pain erupted in John's shoulder and he kneeled dizzily beside his mother.

Some shop owners and civilians were gathering around and—although John can't remember it, he was reported to be screaming, screaming loudly and senselessly, before he passed out from the pain.

….

"You didn't have to pay," said John as they walked into the darkness.

The night had already taken a bizarre turn. He'd never imagine sharing so much of his unspoken past with a boy who he'd just met—a boy who merely licked his lips after the story, said 'that's interesting' and dropped his credit card onto the check.

"You won't let me buy drugs so my money's virtually useless."

"But still, you hardly had anything," John protested.

"John _please_," Sherlock muttered, and although he said it softly, there was so much weight behind the word. It was almost as if he was _asking_ him something, or thanking him, or maybe even begging him. John couldn't put his finger on it, but before he quite had time to think, he was reacting to Sherlock's unspoken plea.

He dove forward and warped his arms around his lanky roommate. Buried in the large coat, John muttered an awkward "thank you" into the boy's shoulder. Sherlock hesitated, but responded by pulling his arms around John's torso tight.

John blushed as he pulled back. They both seemed surprised by what had come over him.

As they walked down the street, listening to the wind and their own echoing footsteps, John decided that there was something strikingly different about the person he was around Sherlock. And just maybe, John was okay with that.

**Hello! Hope you're enjoying this fic. It feels as though not a lot of people are, so I'd love some feedback if you're out there. If you do like this story, I would be so grateful if you'd spread the word! I really hate when it feels like no one's interested. As always, thanks for reading! **


	6. Chapter 6

John had expected the remaining hour to be awkward beyond belief. He would imagine that after exchanging extremely personal stories with his new roommate, their proceedings would be uncomfortable for at least the night. But the thing about Sherlock was that he was so beyond social norms that nothing quite fazed him, so they were talking about Trigonometry homework within seconds.

They walked through each store a bit aimlessly. Besides the typical fast food joint and gas station, the town consisted of a bookstore, a floral shop, an antique store, and a pet store.

The pet store was their last stop, and John inhaled the smell of dog food and fur as they entered.

Some yapping pups were in a cage near the front, and they immediately caught John's attention.

"Hey there, little guys," he said, his voice reaching up a few octaves. "Aren't you cute?"  
"I'm sorry," said a mousy man, coming from the back of the shop. "No touching the animals!"

"What do you mean no touching the animals? This is a pet shop," said Sherlock.

The man glanced around nervously and adjusted his glasses. "Look, we have to take some new precautions. Now if you don't mind, we're closing up—"

Before the man could finish, Sherlock took off toward the back.

"What are you doing, young man?! You can't go in their!"

John followed, confused, as Sherlock opened the door to the office at the far end of the shop. "You're eyes gave it away. Never look _toward_ what you're trying to hide. Now what have we got here?"  
They stepped inside, and John had to keep himself from gasping at the gruesome sight. There were dozens of dead goldfish scattered across the floor of this office. The smell assaulted his senses as he looked up. Spray paint, in surprisingly neatly curved letters, ran across the wall.

_He will lie with the fishes._

John glanced over at Sherlock. A ridicules smile had taken over his features. "Yes, _finally_ something interesting!"

He drew forward, inspecting the wall.

"I don't know who you kids are," said the man, "but I don't think any of this concerns you. The police are on their way."

Sherlock stepped back. "Of course it concerns me. John here's a witness."

"I'm a wha—"

"Hush hush," he said, jabbing John with his bony elbow. "You can tell the authorities everything."

The man hesitated but eventually offered them a seat. John watched Sherlock in confusion. The dark haired boy grinned back and whispered, "I haven't seen a decent case since I lived in London."

"Yes but what am I supposed to say to the—"

"Police!" said the shop owner. "So glad you're here!"

Two middle-aged cops entered and frowned at the sight. One, a woman, said, "Again?" as they took a look around.

"I left to get something to eat for dinner about thirty minutes ago. When I came back, I saw the back door had been broken into and, well, all this!"

The authorities took down the man's ramblings.

"Tell them, John," said Sherlock, as he pushed him forward.

The woman turned toward him.

"This boy says he saw something," said the mousy man.

"Erm, it might not be anything but, uh, on our way into town the bus driver gave us a real strange look, almost like he didn't like teenagers or something. Maybe he suspects a male teenager is up to all this. If that helps."

The woman just looked at him, nodded, and said, "Thank you. Are you two students at Doyle?"

"Yeah, we're about to head back before curfew."

"My partner here can give you a ride. It'd let me rest at ease, considering there's someone out there making threats like this."

…

If John had thought that going out with Sherlock was bad for his reputation, he certainly didn't want to be reading the minds of his friends on the front steps. The popular hang-out spot was littered with students, including most of his football team, when Sherlock and John left the cop car.

"Thanks again," John muttered as it drove off.

Sherlock was smiling like an idiot. "Brilliant night, wasn't it?" he said to John as they passed by his friends, who stared at him with dumb-struck expressions on their faces.

John tried to shoot them an "I'll explain later" look as he raced up the stairs after Sherlock.

"Nice improvising, that thing with the bus driver," said Sherlock as he strutted though the halls. "Was there any truth to it?"

"The bus driver _had_ shot us a nasty look, so I didn't have to completely lie to the police. Now, mind telling me what that was about?"

"Remember when I told the class that I wanted to get into detective work? Well, back in London there were plenty of cases for me to investigate. Nobody gave me the time of day, of course, because I was so young, but I always managed to figure things out before the idiotic authorities and send in anonymous tips. I haven't been able to get a decent case in a while since I spend all my time at this dull school. But this seems promising!"

Sherlock was practically dancing when he opened the door to their dorm. John had always thought of Sherlock as shadowy and aloof, so he couldn't help but smile at the flamboyancy he now so keenly expressed.

"Okay, but why pin me as a witness? To buy you time?"

"And _this_." Sherlock smiled wickedly as he pulled a manila folder from the inside of his coat.

"Don't tell me you…"

"Oh, they'll have more copies back at the station." He opened the folder and spread its contents across John's bed. There were papers and a few photographs.

"See here," said Sherlock. "This is the file for the other crime committed. You know, when that cop said 'not another one'. Clearly the two are linked."

The pictures were of the flower shop. They petals were strewn all over the front counter. The same writing ran across the wall. _He'll be pushing daisies. _

Sherlock ran over to the desk and started typing feverishly into John's laptop.

"What are you doing?"

"Uploading the pictures I took on my cellphone so that I can see them better."

"Why not use your own computer?"

He exhaled. "Every so often, my brother checks my history and hard drive. Anything remotely suspicious must be done on yours. Oh, don't be cross about it! This'll be brilliant, you'll see."

John peered over Sherlock's shoulder. He smelled of tobacco and coffee and soap. "You aren't normal, are you?"

"John, surely you've figured out that much by now."


	7. Chapter 7

"I call working with John!" cried Anderson after their chemistry teacher instructed the class to choose partners.

"Hey, what about me!?" said Greg.

"Sorry mate, but you said it yourself. You're crap at chemistry."

Garry had partnered with his girlfriend, naturally, and the three remaining boys stared between themselves awkwardly. John couldn't help himself. He looked past them at Sherlock, sitting in the corner with his posture slumped. His face was statue-like once more, making him appear like an entirely different person from the boy who had been beaming over murder threats a few nights prior.

"You two work together. I can partner with Sherlock."

Anderson looked at him for a bit longer than need-be. "So you actually _like_ it then, hanging around that freak?"

"Maybe if you bothered to get to know him instead of making his life a bloody hell all the time," John muttered.

"Oh and you know him _so_ well?" snorted Anderson. "It's been, what, two weeks?"

"That's not the point."

Lestrade sighed. "Look, John, I'm not saying you shouldn't be his friend, but you've got to realize that just because he's decent to you doesn't mean he isn't a nightmare for anyone else who tries to hold a conversation with him."

John picked up his things. "Well I can't just _not _be social with him. He's sort of my roommate, you know. And he also happens to be great at chemistry, so if you don't mind..."

"Don't forget about your initiation bet," said Anderson as John departed.

"I won't, guys. What do you think all this is for?"

John felt several sets of eyes on him as he crossed the room, all the way into the far back corner. Sherlock didn't notice his presence until John dropped his books down loudly onto the desk in front of him.

"Mind if I…"

Sherlock looked a little startled. "Of course not, well, after you fetch me a Bunsen burner."

John smiled, rolled his eyes, then headed toward the supplies cabinet.

When John woke from his sleep, his entire body felt like it had been tossed into the ocean. The sea of sheets engulfed him, and he gasped for breath, turning about on his bed as though he were trying to escape. But escape what? The massive waves he felt, or maybe his pounding headache, or the images of bullet wounds embedded onto the back of his eyelids.

And who was screaming? Oh, right, _he_ was screaming.

He suddenly felt himself becoming restrained. Someone was holding him, a bit roughly at first, but as his body relaxed, the hold became gentle. John gasped suddenly. Only after a long while did he realize that he wasn't in any danger, but that he had woken from a night terror.

"You alright, John?" whispered Sherlock.

Only then did John come to terms with the fact that Sherlock's arms had enclosed around him. Common sense told him to pull away, but the anxiety still lingered in his veins. Leaving Sherlock's warmth seemed un-rationally terrifying, and so he remained buried in his shoulder.

"S-sory," said John. "Night terrors. I'll shut up now, I p-promise."

Sherlock hesitated. "It's alright. I wasn't asleep anyway."

"What time is it?" John breathed.

"Three in the morning."

"And you're up?"

"I was thinking about the case… shall I tell you about it?"

John could tell Sherlock only offered as a way to calm his nerves. And, thinking that Sherlock wasn't _quite _as bad with emotions as he so often led on, John allowed their bodies to shift back against the pillows.

This wasn't normal, John knew, but being held was one of the few comforts that worked on him. Besides, neither he nor Sherlock were _normal_. They were two deeply fucked up teenagers, and so why should the world care if they lay in bed together? Other than perhaps over football, the world had never cared about any of John's actions much before.

"This is definitely some sort of chain. It'll spread to all the local businesses, I suspect. First was Ally's Flower Emporium and then Furry Pals Pet Store—it's going alphabetically. See?"

"Yeah," said John. Sherlock smelt nice. Did Sherlock always smell nice?

"So next on the list should be The Reader's Burrow. We'll go to see if we can catch him in the act. We'll have no way of knowing _when_ he'll strike, but likely soon considering there was only a two day difference between the last two crimes and he likes to be punctual. We'll just have to take our homework there each night until closing."

"Sounds good," sighed John. Again, he contemplated pulling away now that his senses were returning to him. Maybe Sherlock guessed this, because he instantly began to run his fingers in languid circles over John back, neck, and shoulders.

"This isn't what mates do," John muttered tiredly into Sherlock shoulder.

"I can stop," said Sherlock, unsure.

But the drowsiness got to John's head, and he merely laughed at the occasion he now found himself in—laying on his new (incredibly odd) roommate with a trust belonging only to friends of many years. "Don't stop," John ordered and, rapping an arm across Sherlock's stomach, he returned to his dreams.

**Short but sweet chapter. Please review **


	8. Chapter 8

John awoke screaming twice that following week.

After the duo returned to the room following an uneventful night in town (awaiting the next threat and deducing the passersby's), Sherlock decided enough was enough. He pushed the two small beds together in the center of the room.

"What the Hell, Sherlock?"

"You're comforted by my close proximity at night, John. This'll help."

"You know what the guys will think if they see this?"

Sherlock looked up from the beds. "They'll think that you enjoy sleeping beside me. Which, hate to break it to you, is precisely the truth."

John couldn't find the words to protest. He gave up and fell onto his side of the now joint-bed. He had given up on so much lately—the excitement of the case, the desire to fit in well with the team, and, most of all, the need to define what he was feeling toward Sherlock.

You could desire to sleep beside someone platonically, right? John reminded himself that it wasn't as if he were _gay_. Sherlock just provided a different life. And sometimes, different is better.

Sherlock crawled into bed beside him, huffing irritably. "I don't understand!" He cried. "This case has gone _nowhere_."

John rolled onto his side so that he could see Sherlock's profile staring irritably at the roof.

"Are you getting _bored_ again?_"_

"Don't mock me, John."

"Well you know, I have a decent cure for boredom. Come with me to Ally Hooper's party tomorrow night."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose up. "What if there's a break in the case?"

"Case-shmase. It'll be fun."

Sherlock rolled over too. John realized that they were close, too close—their noses nearly touched at the tips.

"Nobody wants me there."

"_I _want you there."

John blushed with the intensity of Sherlock's gaze.

"Okay," said Sherlock, "for you."

John smiled half-heartedly then rolled over, turning his back to Sherlock. He hated the way he felt when staring at Sherlock's icy blue eyes. It was almost as if Sherlock could see everything, all of him, all of the thoughts John kept hidden even from himself.

It didn't help that his ulterior motives for taking Sherlock to there party were so fucked up either.

Regardless, he slept through the night terror-free with Sherlock at his side.

…..

Sherlock wore a tight, purple button-up which suited him quite well. In contrasted with his creamy skin and made him appear more sociable in comparison to his normal black. Still, the deep purple was discrete enough to match his, well, Sherlock-y demeanor.

In comparison, John looked plain in his familiar forest-green jumper.

"Alright, if this gets too tedious, I'm leaving without you," Sherlock warned.

"Fine with me."

The house, it turned out, seemed more like a mansion. It was covered in teens with red cups, crawling about like ants around a fallen left-over. Well, loud, drunk ants around beer-pong games and hookah circles.

"You're making deductions already, aren't you?" John whispered.

"Boy to the right, red shirt."

"What about him?"

"He just dumped that girl in the corner last… Tuesday, I'm guessing. She's not the partying type. She only came here to make him jealous with a short skirt and a flirtatious smile, and by the looks of it, she's succeeding."

John scanned the scene. "That's an easy one."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, accepting John's challenge instantly.

"Pot head in the corner is celebrating getting the highest score in science—no, history class. That girl there is planning on having sex with her boyfriend tonight, but is having second thoughts. Girl in magenta—closet lesbian. Boy with the backward hat is planning on being the designated driver. Girl in the sweater is wishing she was home on her blog right now."

John smiled. "You're amazing."

"Yes, well… what else is there to do here anyway?"

"Oh, there's _tons_," said a perky voice. Sherlock jumped and, turning around, saw the smiling face of Alison Hooper.

Ally was a senior, a varsity runner, and a straight A student—the type of girl any guy would be proud to bring home to Mum and Dad. Her sandy colored hair fell in long ringlets. Her face, which was about 40 percent bright blue eyes and 50 percent large, upbeat smile, stared at the boys.

John had spoken to her relatively often in class, but by no means expected such a warm welcome.

"Hi, Ally. _Great_ party."

"Thanks. Everybody sure looks like their having a good time. I'm happy you came."

John opened his mouth to speak, but was cut short instantly by Sherlock.

"I'm assuming you have restroom somewhere around here."

"Oh, yeah, there's one right down the hall," she said. "But you know what, I think Sally and Anderson just went in there together." She scanned the crowd and, after a moment, called out for her younger sister. "Molly?! Hey, take Sherlock to Mum and Dad's bathroom, but make sure no one else hangs around there."

Molly, who John had hardly met, scarcely resembled her sister. While Ally was long and elegant, Molly seemed entirely mousy. With elfish features and frizzy hair, she looked like a character out of a children's cartoon.

"Sure," she said.

Sherlock, with an almost pain staked expression, followed the girl up the stairs and out of sight.

"Thank God," whispered Ally. "Come with me."

She pulled John by the hand outside. Around the pool were familiar faces: the soccer team, and the rest of the "In-crowd", and John wondered if there was some kind of hierarchy to the places people hung out at Ally's parties.

"Does he follow you around everywhere?"

"Uh, no, actually the guys wanted me to bring him."

"Really?" she said. "Well I feel sorry for you, John. I really do. Getting stuck with Sherlock Holmes."

John was saved the trouble of replying when Greg came to greet him.

"Hey, don't get too wasted. We still have practice tomorrow," he joked.

"You should have told that to the others," said Ally, and their gaze shifted toward the other side of the pool where five of their friends were attempting (and failing miserably) at juggling a ball with the motor skills of the severely intoxicated.

They laughed for a moment before Greg's voice lowered to almost a whisper.

"Did you bring _him?_"

"Yeah he's upstairs," John replied, feeling a sense of guilt work through his stomach. "Why?"

"The team… they're planning—"

But Greg was cut short when Anderson and Sally came outside. With his arm wrapped lazily around her, he caught the attention of the masses and smiled mischievously. They all cheered sloppily.

Ally rolled her eyes. "You whores better not have messed up my bathroom!"

"Oh shut it, all of you!" cried Sally with a giggle.

"John!" slurred Anderson. "You didn't hold up your end of the deal! Where's the f-freak?"

"He's upstairs," said Ally. "John and I will go find him."

She dashed back into the house. John followed the slightly buzzed but entirely attractive girl through the maze of teenagers.

"So your parents, they allow all this?" John asked as they walked up the stairs.

"It's just mum, and she goes on lots of business trips. She doesn't really care as long as it gets cleaned up by the time she's home."

"And you manage all that cleaning?"

She laughed. "I help if I'm not hung over. Molly's a great little sister though."

"She does it all?" John could only imagine the small teen dashing around the spilt alcohol and scattered cans.

Ally just nodded and peaked into her parent's room. "They must have already went downstairs. But come here. I want to show you something."

The bedroom looked like a suite out of a hotel catalog. One large bed, lavish paintings, and a small lounge. The room was dark, in shadows, and Ally flicked on a dull lamp.

John hovered in the middle of the room while Ally retrieved something from a drawer. It was a photo, a team photo.  
"My parents met in high school. Apparently, my dad made the team with just a few spots open. He was even center offense, just like you."

She pointed to a teen in the center of the photo. He had her eyes.

"If you don't mind me asking, what happened to him?"

"He died last year," she said. "He was sick for a while though. I heard your mum passed away too."

John wasn't sure how she knew this.

"Yeah, when I was a kid," he said. He hated speaking about it.

She looked at him quite seriously. In the semidarkness, she seemed less perky and more genuinely beautiful. John exhaled.

"If you need someone to talk to about it, I'm here."

"Thanks. Erm, you too."

Ally moved forward, closing the space between them until she was close enough to put her hand gingerly on John's forearm.

"This might seem forward," she said. "But, you know, when you go to school with the same people for so long, it's really refreshing to meet someone knew. Especially when that someone is as cute as you are."

John's mind reeled. He wished he were as smart as Sherlock and able to figure things like this out ahead of time. Instead, he stood a bit dumbfounded.

Suddenly, the noises from outside rose to louder volumes. Ally rolled her eyes. "What the Hell are they up to now?"

They peered out the window. John saw a crowd of people huddled around. At first, every seemed in a state of huddled riot, but then John saw a flash of purple. _Sherlock. _

"What are they doing?"

John watched his friend get tossed and kicked around, juggled as poorly as the ball. "Ally, I think I need to go help him."

"Oh c'mon, there only messing around!" She said. "They aren't hurting him. Don't let the freak ruin your night."

"He isn't a freak," John muttered.

"Last semester he got the entire cross-country team on probation for some of his stupid deductions." John watched Sherlock struggle against the crowd. Then two of John teammates took him by the shoulders and tossed him roughly into the pool. Cheers rose up to the room and the crowd began to disperse.

"See? It's all over," said Ally. "He's fine."

"I should probably go see if he's okay," said John.

But Ally's arm wrapped around John's neck quickly. "Your concern is so sweet, John." And she kissed him.

_God,_ John had been so caught up in Sherlock's madness, that he nearly forgot how nice it felt to be, well, felt. Ally kissed him fondly, wrapping herself around him. Sherlock, John thought, could wait a while.

_**Hey guys! Sorry it's been so long, but I've got a lot in store still. Enjoy : ) please review! Oh, and I'm also officially taking PROMPTS for my ships on Tumblr: oneshotfics. . **_


	9. Chapter 9

John wiped Ally's lip gloss off his lips as they left to return to the party. Beaming with the glow of a long make-out and heavy-petting session, they walked down the stairs creating plans for the following weekend.

"I'm so happy this worked out," she said. "I've been building up my courage since, like, the first day of school."

John wasn't used to being _liked_. Girls settled on him, sometimes, but even those had been scarce. "I'm glad it worked too. But I should really go find Sherlock."

"Of course," she said, rolling her eyes. She pecked him affectionately on the cheek and disappeared into the crowd.

John checked outside first, but found nothing other than his obnoxious friends. Anderson, who was barely able to form a complete sentence, placed his hand heavily on John's shoulder.

"Sherlock… God, his face! Asking for you like a… like a… I don't know."

"Right," said John, pulling away irritably. "Have you seen him?"

Anderson shrugged and staggered away. John checked the kitchen, the living room, the hall. The house was flooded with people, but John couldn't find Sherlock anywhere.

Finally, John checked an upstairs bedroom. The place was a ghastly shade of pink. Inside, there were about ten teens sitting around in a circle. If John's senses hadn't been assaulted instantly by the smell of smoke, alcohol, and pot, John might have seen Sherlock in a second. Instead, he took a moment to scan the room, seeing the wobbly teens, before his eyes finally settled on Sherlock.

He was wrapped in a large, white sheet, and his wet curls clung to his forehead. He focused on John for a moment, his ocean-colored eyes red around the edges.

"Jawn," he said.

John sat at his side in the circle. "Are you wearing any pants?"

"No."

"Right…"

Sherlock laughed, and despite himself, John did too.

"My clothes were wet," Sherlock noted. "But you wouldn't know about that seeing as you were a bit occupied snogging Ally Hooper, unless that's your usual shade of lip gloss."

"Yes, well, sorry about that," John answered awkwardly. "I didn't mean—"

"Don't lie, John, you aren't good at it," Sherlock cut in, rolling his eyes (a movement that set him off balance, forcing him to sway backward). "I've known since you invited me that it'd be for the benefit of your mates."

"I… What? Then why would you even come?!"

Sherlock's lip twisted upward in one corner. "Your pal Malcom isn't hard to pick-pocket from." From beneath his sheet, Sherlock withdrew a small bag—the contents, John could only guess.

"Aye, it landed on you Sherlock!" cried some blonde chick, sitting on top her boyfriend's lap, across the circle. Sure enough, a beer can pointed promptly in Sherlock's direction.

The game, from what John had picked up from just barely listening, forced the person at the slim end of the bottle to be subject to a dare as chosen by the others.

"Oh alright. What will it be then?" Sherlock slurred.

"Kiss Rose!" said a girl to their left.

"What? NO!" giggled the blonde while the boy beneath her threatened to "Kick Sherlock's arse" is he agreed.

"I've had quite enough arse-kicking tonight," Sherlock pointed out.

"Fine, kiss someone else then!"

In the time it took John to blink, Sherlock's lips were against his. He kissed forcibly, determinedly, leaving John breathlessly savoring the bittersweet alcohol taste of his mouth.

It ended before John could protest. The strangers around him were laughing, cheering, and whistling. But all was drained out except for Sherlock. Looking at his eyes directly, there was something new behind the boy's penetrating stare, something vengeful and merciless. He smirked. "John Watson is a faggot," he said matter-of-factly.

More laughter. John sat frozen with the realization of what had just happened. Sherlock had _outed_ him. Anxiety felt hot in his chest and stomach. God, this news would spread like wildfire.

"That's not true," he managed. "I'm not gay!"

But the group of people shrugged him off. Sherlock spun the bottle and the game began again. John only barely heard the drunken joke as he fled the room. "You don't have to leave, Watson! Stick around and maybe another boy will want to kiss ya!"


End file.
